Tag Archives: original character

impudent. }
so scathes thy concrete will – –
out a mercury-spout, regulations hum
salacious song to sparrow’s meagre dance.
– – ah and,
you’d like the tune—wagers he, teeth brewing a shot of glee in the knife-night—the way it wraps itself
around those neural tombs
where you buried all and epsilons and me.

– where is your
{ hiss and tangent ; haemo-vengeance—where is your sparrow now

{ wretched warlockI bid to you, hello; I have- –
gin a-cacklin’ in the boiler-room
a quarter-bone away. you’d
want some.” – –claim a heckle, a high and the inverted-fang sculptor.

i’d reversed the spines while you were away
sapped minuses to imitation void.see? see—!

see the lacunae we groomed along that fallow equator- –
see the machinated looms, the figure-funnelssee the mecha-lark; its harrowed beginnings—

see the fledgeling corridor, the spite-lines- –
that haunt, a slave-movement to
{ bohemian nocturne , psi-concoction:
of Leviathan composer.see the mecha-lark; its macabre medium—

see my gift for you, prancing memento
see the { needle } in the winery,
the heart in the beat- –
;
ready the adieu, ready
for the mortal turbine in the blue.for the ribcage roundabouts that spin, livid—for you. my defamation darlingand see the mecha-lark, its avant-end—

If the only way my heart can beat for you,
is in a symphony of rage, a burst of vengeful ire,
in a bid for murder and flame and fire, more fire–

{ just k no.w … i ….

I’d feed it all the fuel in the world it could ever hope to crave.
// —want or need or thirst orh un ger—
to the brink of the Sullen hour in which my bones spell:
{ sweet – – blemished surrender. }
to the lavender-blue and lovely-pink of
the notion of { dying with you } .

Revenant, he’d found those eyes,
A siphoned blue, of fog’s final breath,
A tinkle of ether-magic, resigned to the courting of lesser greys that hobble and hunger
Those eyes he’d etch into constellated skin, mottled archways and satin grooves — bejewel those earthen stars that scaled his own paper spine —
Now tinseled with the flavor of him.

—

A sylvan conquest, he’d found that skin,
Territory of the most otherworldly design,
Home to quasi-fae that recline on homegrown heartbeats,
their darling, beating astral spells sown in the river of pulse,
and ivy pools that echo gingerly by the bank
That skin he’d bleed into (— perhaps, should his courage mount just an aching, aching notch—), ride the river of pulse that scorns Acheron’s mourning –
Like a ghost, tide-borne, in pursuit of a beckoning heart.

Life carries on, though the walls seem alive,
stained to the full with the words of good goodbye
he’s contemplated painting them over, with a more vibrant hue
and he searches painstakingly for the strokes, for the lines marked with sorrow, but he can never find them
and so, he catches up to life as it carries on, as the words of good goodbye leak into the quiet, choking ambience, flooding the unseen spaces that hang discreetly in the room — spaces where abstract beauties often intertwined, melding together out of sight
and it isn’t long before he decides that maybe…

In the night, a rustle emerges, and a silhouette weaves through the veil of nocturnal grey
leaving nothing in his tracks but a creased, crumpled note
and remnants of feelings grounded to dust, dissolving through the gaps of the fine, fine silence — framed within a paper-thin forlornness
forming words in the shadows and melodies unsunggood goodbye, they retreat into the darkened corners, bidding—good goodbye
and that is all that fills the great, gaping, bleeding vacancy he’s left behind
a convergence of the shadows he once bathed in, slumbered in, lived in, died in—
and his final act is to tear it to pieces, scattering them over the resigned whispers of good goodbye he’s left milling aimlessly about, wishing for nothing but oblivion.

Notes: A series of drabbles revolving around the hidden woes, unspoken struggles and the inextricable bonds of Project Psyche’s central characters.

I: vermillion
[Written on 1/10/2014]

The moment he watched him press the back of his hand — the despicable, traitorous mark engraved on the back of his hand — against the pale, parched surface of his lips, Gil began to wonder if the heart contained within this friend of his had been sewn together with threads woven in heaven.

He watched as Sandor lifted his eyes — spheres of copper glazed with more hope than he had ever had for just himself — whilst his parted lips remained suspended, hovering like a hallowed ghost over the tainted patch of skin. Gil felt something crack inside him — an interstice he couldn’t have covered up no matter how hard he tried. He kept his consternation chained securely within, bubbling, boiling, and evermore desperate to free itself and let all the world know the utter exhaustion that came with feigning calmness and composure on a daily basis. He pursed his lips and willed all power into the art of suppression, before gently twisting his hand out of Sandor’s grasp, curling fingers that were almost numb around the tender hand to which he owed an immeasurable gratitude as he pulled its owner close.

He heard a faint gasp escape the young man — soft, uncertain, and devoid of the overbearing brashness he so often exuded. “W-wait…,” he murmured, stiffness trapping his motions. “Dude–”

“Thank you,” Gil all but uttered, and Sandor felt himself slacken as the breath of his whispers left invisible tracks all over the curve of his cheek.

“For what?” he replied, softly. “Dude, you’re my friend. I just, well…,” he trailed off, bowing his head slightly. “Just wanted you to know that, y’know. I mean, I don’t give damn what you used to be–”

For accepting, for loving, for knowing, and yet–

Fleeting sparks danced upon the mark that aligned him with the enemy — remnants of contact with lips forged with compassion.

For knowing, and yet…

“Hey, well, I just wanted you to know that I appreciate that,” the iron-wielder hastily chimed in with expert casualness, effectively shrouding the awkwardness that was threatening to manifest. What the hell had he frickin’ done?

Casual he remained as Sandor wound his arms around him, encasing him in an embrace that brought a nascent bitterness to light.

Casual he remained as he raised a hand to pat his back, as wayward, copper-tinted spikes mingled with loose, auburn strands.

Casual he remained as everything within him threatened to collapse.

What the hell had he done?

Angels are beings of discreet benevolence. Their purpose is but to aid — any form of need they may harbour is essentially impertinent.

Summary: It became something that they couldn’t avoid — letting their guard down against their will.

Notes: A series of multi-genre ficlets centered on the growing bond of a mismatched crime-fighting duo. Initiated on 23 January 2014.

IV: Hands
[Written on 27/5/2014; 507 words]

For the first time ever, he notices his hands.

Sandor slowly approaches the slouched figure of his dozing companion from behind, copper-brazen eyes studying the form of his hands with a renewed curiosity. He furtively edges forward, sidling right next to him as he gently rests his own fingers upon the glossy surface of the wooden desk.

His own gnarled, calloused, worn-out fingers… inches apart from his.

He stares, fixated, entranced, at the shape, the outline, the texture of Zion’s hands. His eyes consume their detail, marvelling at the surreal exquisiteness that envelops them. They appear to glow beneath the feeble light of Zion’s desk-lamp, shedding clarity upon the true extent of the sanctity of his complexion — a seamless expanse from which remnants of scars have long faded. Fair and radiant, though hardly delicate at all — the sturdiness of his fingers holds the beauty in place, surrounding it with an adequate touch of masculinity.

His eyes drift to the watch that encircles Zion’s left wrist — he’s wearing his black one today, sleek and lined with silver rims. Its dark colours enhance the illusive brightness of his skin.

Sometimes, he wonders if it’s even possible to have such good skin.

He looks back at his own hand, positioned rather closely next to Zion’s limp arm. For once, he is careful not to stir him from slumber, wanting to drag the moment on for as long as he can. He stares at their hands, taking in the vast difference between them…

And suddenly, a spark of longing darts through his nerves.

A longing to touch, to feel, to reach forward and grasp…

Just inches apart.

In another world, he reaches out, fingers clasping firmly around the hand of the friend he’s lived with for at least a year. He imagines caressing it, tracing his thumb over its smoothness, leaving imperceptible marks of his contact all over his skin. He imagines slipping his fingers through the crevices and binding his hand in place, allowing its warmth to seep into his own skin, his own tainted skin…

Reality crashes forth and Sandor stares at his hand, frozen stiff in its static position. He forces the yearning back into oblivion, and bars the electricity buzzing through his fingers.

“S… Sandor?”

“H-huh?” Sandor snaps his head to look at his now awakened companion, feigning innocence. “U-uh… what’s up?”

“What were you… agh….,” Zion lifts his forehead from the table, vision obscure as grogginess weighs down his motions. “What were you… do… ing… ”

“H-hey, hey…” At once, Sandor slings an arm around the brunet’s shoulders, hoisting him up… and hoping to evade the subject. “Heesh, Zee… you should really go to bed earlier or something, I mean, you look even worse than a zombie grandma.” He snickers.

Zion grunts irritably in response but leans on Sandor’s weight anyway, allowing the taller boy guide him across the room.

He doesn’t notice at all when Sandor lightly grasps his hand on the way — stroking it a while before letting go again.

Summary: It became something that they couldn’t avoid — letting their guard down against their will.

Notes: A series of multi-genre ficlets centered on the growing bond of a mismatched crime-fighting duo. Initiated on 23 January 2014.

III: Mother
[Written on 12/5/2014; 432 words]

“Hey, hey! Luce~!”

“… Mmm… ?”

“Gah… come on, Luce, you aren’t even listening!”

“H-hey, I need to—!”

“Study later, will ya’?”

————

“She’s pretty obsessed with flowers.”

“… Why do you say that?”

“I mean, look,” Sandor jabs a finger, copper eyes widening as he extends his neck to get a closer look. “Flowers, flowers, flowers, more flowers… it’s like every flippin’ picture of her has flowers in it.”

————

“… Come again?”

An exasperated groan. “I mean… what do you think our lives’ll be like in the future? Geez… don’t tell me you’ve never thought about that.”

“Well….”

“Nah, you probably haven’t. Considering all you do every day is study and ogle at—”

Summary: It became something that they couldn’t avoid — letting their guard down against their will.

Notes: A series of multi-genre ficlets centered on the growing bond of a mismatched crime-fighting duo. Initiated on 23 January 2014.

II: Fear
[Written on 13/2/2014; 938 words]

Sandor Mothwing knew no fear.

It was something that all of them had come to know, had grown to accept, and had come to acknowledge that it was simply an intrinsic part of his very essence without even realizing it. It became such a natural, everyday part of life for them — his very partners whom he had to work with on a regular basis — that they’d learnt to let it breeze past them as quickly as Sandor would often do himself, darting down the path in pursuit of a fleeing evildoer with a cocky grin etched deep into his features.

Bethel had stopped throwing tantrums and chiding him for his recklessness and utter ‘idiocy’ soon enough, and it didn’t take long for Marcia to follow suit, now only able to express her frustration in the most energy-conversing way she could — a deep, indicative sigh. Gil managed to hold out a little longer though, having a rather impressive degree of patience that far outweighed that of the girls. Jehiel, on the other hand, had scarcely bothered to even try, deeming it nothing but a waste of time in his typical condescending manner.

And sure enough, only Zion was left. Left to shoulder the ramifications of his friend’s recklessness all on his own.

It wasn’t like he had much of a choice either, being the only member of the group with known healing capabilities. More often than not, the beanie-clad boy would be the one saddled with casting recuperative spells over Sandor’s many cuts, bruises, wounds and injuries — most of which were completely unnecessary. More often than not, he’d make scathing comments about Sandor’s disregard for his own safety as he did, putting it as bluntly as he could that whatever he was doing was only making himself a nuisance for everyone. There were times when Zion even withdrew from speaking to the boy for as long as it took for his anger to subside, and Sandor would simply wait for him to cool down, keeping his distance while looking visibly downcast.

Because itwasjust that aggravating. How he didn’t listen. How being fearless was something he so foolishly prided himself on, and so he wouldn’t listen.

Sandor Mothwing knew no fear, and his sheer stubbornness had made it clear.

Zion knew it was rather horrible on his part to wish for any harm to befall his partner-and-friend, but if it was the only way – the only way – that he could knock some sense into the boy then so be it. He was silently hoping for the day that he’d wind up in an even worse state, with wounds and injuries and a pain far worse than what he’d experienced so far, and finally concede to the fact that they were right and he was wrong and that he had been acting stupid all the while and he’d never do it again.

And sure enough, it came, in a way he had never expected.

It had been the middle of the night when a sudden noise pierced into his consciousness, jolting him out of his slumber… on the couch. Zion blinked blearily, and it took him a moment to remember that they’d settled for spending the night watching a movie at Sandor’s insistence. He turned his head, searching warily for the source of the sound before it came reverberating through the hollow corners of his head again.

Whimpering.

Zion cocked an eyebrow, wondering if his ears were playing tricks on him. Nevertheless, he slowly got off the couch he’d been occupying, pacing closer and closer to the source.

It wasn’t long before he realized that what he heard had been completely real.

As real as the trembling form that lay lengthwise on the opposite couch, drenched in a daunting layer of perspiration.

Trembling, panting, tossing, turning.

“Sandor… ?” Zion ventured closer, eyeing him tentatively.

Desperation. Fright.

“Sandor,” he called again, now in a clearer tone as he approached him, reaching out to grab his convulsing shoulder.

Fear.

Absolute fear.

“Sandor!” Zion yelled, giving him a single, forceful shake to snap him out of it. In an instant, his flatmate awoke with a start, letting out a gasp of pure shock before whipping around to face him.

Zion could’ve sworn he caught a glimpse of a tear.

“O-Okay,” he spoke slowly, trying to reorganize his thoughts. Thinking that it would be best to first calm Sandor down, he kept a firm grip on both of his tense, hunched up shoulders. “Relax. It was just a nightmare. Okay? Just… relax.”

It was difficult to even hear himself talk against Sandor’s heavy, erratic breathing. Zion could tell that he was struggling to string a proper sentence, only managing to give a few stiff, subtle nods in response to his prior coaxing.

“Geez, that guy could go on talking for days if you’d let him.”

Zion loosened his hold on his shoulders, slowly sitting down next to him on the edge of the couch. He tried speaking to him a lower tone, ignoring the whirlwind of confusion that had taken root in his mind. “Sandor?”

He almost felt his soul escape him when Sandor seized him roughly by his shirt, crumpling it up in a desperate hold.